Harry Houdini
by Katrinka
Summary: Oh, the formation of a plot! We've got Apparation lessons, Boys-Who-Fell, and dumpsters. Who could ask for more? Plot should warm up by Chapter Four, when I get around to it. Enjoy :)
1. A matter of licenses

Two boys walked up the drive in step, a tall redhead and a dark- haired boy, just walking as though they had not a care in the world.  
  
Well, okay, they were more strutting than walking, but who could blame them? It wasn't every day that . . .  
  
Before the narrator could finish her thought, a curly haired somebody burst out of the lopsided house before them, charging full throttle down the lane.  
  
"Hmm, y'think we should move?" Harry Potter murmured, still walking forward. He nudged his best friend, Ronald Weasely, and nodded at the oncoming whirlwind.  
  
Ron grinned widely, his eyes fully focused on the welcoming committee. "Naw, if she doesn't crash into one of us, surely she'll hurt herself. Newton's Law and all that . . ." His voice trailed off.  
  
Harry smirked a bit at that, sure that Ron wasn't quite thinking of physics at the moment. "Riiight, mate. I'll just make sure it's you she hits, shall I?" Harry asked slyly. Ron's ears immediately reddened, and he stopped in his tracks to turn to Harry.  
  
It was a bad, bad move---  
  
"And just what might you be insin-OOF!"  
  
--- mostly because it required him taking his eyes off of a girl barreling down a sloping lane, going so fast that she couldn't stop. Hermione Granger, the stampeding herd of one, hit him full on in the chest.  
  
Ron staggered, instinctively grabbing onto the human missile that had struck him so forcefully. The two pair wobbled about like drunken ballroom dancers for a minute while Harry nearly toppled over laughing. The dazed pair didn't fall over, but it was a near thing.  
  
Harry stood off to the side, managing to quiet his loud chuckles to small snickers as his two best friends still stood stock-still, one clutching the other's shirt for balance and panting from exertion, the other blinking away stars and smiling bemusedly down at the flyaway brown curls that were covering his second-best-friend's face. He tried to brush them out of her eyes as she tilted her head up to look at him. She smiled in a very pixie-ish fashion, peering up at him from her place snug on his shirt.  
  
Then, in typical Hermione fashion, she straightened abruptly, nearly bashing his chin with her head. Taking one last deep breath, she gasped out, "Sooooo?!?!"  
  
She looked up at Ron (he was still much taller than she, even when she was standing straight) with shining eyes and flushed cheeks and small hands clinging to his shirt as though he was about to tell her the secret to life.  
  
And Ron just stood there, grinning like an idiot.  
  
Harry sighed. Once again, it was Harry that had to do something, if only to save Ron from noticing that he was so very close to Hermione and then, consequently, saying something stupid, as Ron was apt to do.  
  
"And a good afternoon to you too, 'Mione." Harry teased, drawing her attention away from the spaced-out redhead.  
  
Hermione turned her bright-eyed gaze away from said redhead to smile sheepishly at Harry. He noticed, however, that she made no move to extricate herself from Ron's arms, which were still holding her against his chest. She even started to say hello before she realized she had been expertly deterred from her original line of questioning. Her expression hardened and her eyes narrowed. Hermione Granger was NOT one to be put off for long.  
  
"So? How did it go?" she demanded. "I've been waiting for hours and hours and hours!" She stepped away from Ron at this point (who looked slightly disappointed to see her move) to wave her arms about wildly as though to prove the wait had gotten to her. "Did you get them or not?!?"  
  
Ron stepped up beside Harry, pulling at an imaginary beard as he pondered outloud, "Oh, I don't know, Harry . . . Should we tell her?" He winked openly at his best friend, who caught on to the game fast.  
  
Harry clasped his hands behind him and leaned slightly towards Hermione, tilting his head innocently to the side. "No. No, Ron, I don't think we should. She doesn't look . . . excited enough."  
  
Hermione's face was slowly changing colors. First it was pink. Then it was red. It was fast approaching purple . . .  
  
The boys had time for one quick laugh (making it all the way to purple in less than five minutes? New record!) before two small and extremely quick hands shot out and grabbed their collars, yanking them forward so fast that their heads banged together.  
  
Hermione gave them the full-strength glare, all the more imposing because she was inches from their faces. "Tell. Me. Now." She gritted, her brown eyes flicking from one amused face to the other and back.  
  
"Tut, tut, Miss Granger," Ron chided her with a smile. "Violence is never the answer!" He winked at Harry, whose face was still smashed up against his, and mouthed "one . . . two . . . three . . ."  
  
And with a small, synchronized "pop", Hermione was left holding only empty air.  
  
She whirled around quickly, her dusty robes getting dustier by the minute, until she spotted the two very smug looking boys standing about ten meters up the lane.  
  
"Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . " Harry whispered to Ron, watching as Hermione's face went blank for a second. They knew it was coming; they just had to hold on for it. It wasn't a long wait.  
  
Hermione screamed. Loudly. And then she began doing a crazy dance which involved a lot of foot stomping and hand waving and dust flying. "You did it! You did it!" And then she was barreling towards them again, this time crashing into both of them and bringing them down flat. Harry managed to grasp his glasses firmly before all three of them hit grass, otherwise he would have been flattened and blinded instead of just flattened.  
  
"I'm so proud of you two, I could just kiss you!" Hermione screamed, squeezing them tightly around the necks as they fought to breathe. To be winded and then squashed and then strangled makes it quite hard to utilize full lung capacity, they were fast finding.  
  
As suddenly as their air intake stopped, it began again, with Hermione sitting up. She glared down at the two of them. "And there you were, making me worry, making me think maybe you hadn't gotten gotten your Apparating licenses, not telling me anything . . . Don't you even think about doing that again! I'll strangle you both!" She stood up, still glaring, and shook off her dusty robes with a humph. "Now, c'mon, let's go see your family. They're dying to see you, too!" And then she was smiling again, so happy she was almost skipping.  
  
Ron whispered to Harry, "Girls. They're completely nutters."  
  
Harry nodded in agreement. "Hermione especially . . . who would ever have thought that quiet, sweet little bookish Hermione could be so . . . so . . ."  
  
"Yeah. I know." Ron got that dreamy look on his face again. "But I'll tell you, mate, that was still one of the best 'hello's I have ever gotten." They laughed quietly, and Ron blushed. As soon as he had his cursed fair skin under control, they ran to catch up with Hermione, all walking towards the Burrow. 


	2. Now it's your turn, Mione!

Dear Readers,  
  
Hiya, pleased to meet you all, positively enchanted! I wish you all good health and happiness come the new year!  
  
My big brother tells me that I should add a disclaimer on to my stories from now on because otherwise someone might sue little ol' me for all I'm worth. Hah, the poor sap, they think I actually OWN something worth taking? I freely offer up to those who would take them my oh-so-stylish clothes (HAH!), my broken lump of plastic (also known as my computer, or to be more exact, was known at some point as a computer. . . cerca 1995) , and my wooden chopstick collection. Oh, and also my burial plot, I suppose that's under my name, too.  
  
If I owned something as nice as Harry Potter and company, though, I wouldn't want to give that up, no road! But I suppose because I don't own it, all I can do is envy it. Ah, it keeps me humble (sigh of neverending longing inserted here).  
  
Oh, if you've got any suggestions for me, feel free to write me at Lildragonrider@aol.com. I'd love to hear from you!  
  
Your slightly crazy but still happily quirky friend,  
  
Katrinka Mac  
  
P.S. Could someone explain to me, what exactly is a flame? I'd be much obliged!  
  
********************************************************************  
  
  
  
"So, 'Mione," Ron said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Now that we've gotten our Apparating licenses, when are you going to get yours?"  
  
"Don't talk with your mouth full, Ron dear." Mrs. Weasely called from down the table. Harry smiled. The little (although still highly formidable) lady sat at the far end of a noisy table, in the middle of deep conversation with Bill and Mr. Weasely, cast measuring glances at the twins (who did, indeed, look up to something), made sure all the dishes and cups were full, probably was also baking warm desserts in the kitchen, and still had the presence of mind to notice that Ron was talking with his mouth full. Great owls, how he loved this family!  
  
Ron rolled his eyes and swallowed obediently.  
  
Hermione was shaking her head. "Noooo, no, no, I'll go the muggle way, thank you. I walked before I was a witch, and I will continue to walk, magic or no. I liiiiike walking. I liiiiiiike remaining in one piece. I liiiiiike having both feet on the ground."  
  
Harry grinned at that. Nobody had their feet planted more firmly on the ground than Hermione Granger, that was for sure.  
  
"Besides," Hermione continued, sensing that Ron was going to argue some more, "Walking keeps me trim."  
  
Ron choked on his next forkful of potatoes. The suggestion that Hermione, his Hermione (well, in his dreams, anyway) might ever need to lose some weight, was startling. Laughable. Ridiculous. He eyed her figure in an appraising way. Nope, he thought, a blush rising in his cheeks, everything was right as it should be.  
  
Well, except for the fact that Hermione was now blushing and glaring at him.  
  
Harry hurried into the conversation, hoping he could somehow salvage it before the next big row. Leave Ron alone for half a minute with Hermione and there was bound to be bloodshed . . .  
  
"What don't you like about Apparating, 'Mione?" Harry asked innocently, knowing full well what she didn't like: it was the same reason she couldn't stand floo powder and the same reason she'd never be a drinker, social or otherwise. She couldn't handle the loss of control. Not that he could blame her, really; he didn't much like it himself. Well, except on broomsticks. And Hermione didn't exactly like those, either.  
  
Hermione looked down at her plate and muttered something. Harry, sitting next to her, couldn't make out what she said over the normal dinner chatter at the Weasely table, and certainly Ron couldn't either at his place across the table. Ron's eyebrows furrowed in the most adorably anxious way; he didn't like it when Hermione was upset, especially when he didn't do anything to cause it.  
  
Harry leaned forward a bit. "Sorry, what was that, 'Mione?"  
  
Hermione threw up her hands in defeat and muttered just loud enough for both to hear, "Squinching, okay? I can't stand the though of being split in two, part of me in one place and part of me in the other and not being able to move on either end. It'd be downright . . . creepy." She glared down at her plate as though she would have liked to take her anxious frustrations out on the poor, defenseless, already dead and quite well-cooked turkey leg lying before her.  
  
Ron got up from his place and walked all the way around the table as Mrs. Weasely announced that the apple pie was waiting for them in the house. The twins bolted for the door, followed closely by Ginny, Charlie, and Bill. Ron, however, came to a stop behind where Hermione was still sitting, eyes locked on plate. Gently, he put his arm around her shoulders, smiling winsomely up at her face. "Aw, c'mon, Hermione, we'll teach ya!"  
  
"Yeah, we'll practice with you, get you ready for your test before you take it, just like Bill did with us. C'mon, it'll be fun!" Harry wheedled on her other side.  
  
"As fun as, well, riding a broomstick!" Ron concurred, before wincing as he remembered exactly why Hermione disliked broomsticks so much. Back in their second year, Ron and Harry had offered to help Hermione with her flying and she had (perhaps foolishly) accepted. It started out really well. While Hermione wasn't a natural, she was a quick study and was soon wobbling about the pitch on a broom by herself, never more than a few meters from the ground. Slowly she gathered up confidence and speed. But, really, how were Harry and Ron supposed to know that Hufflepuff had reserved the field starting halfway through their first flying lesson, and had released the Bludgers before looking to see if the pitch was clear? It was only through some very fast flying that Harry had managed to catch Hermione's arms as she toppled off her broomstick trying to avoid a speeding black ball of fury.  
  
Apparently, Hermione hadn't forgotten that little incident, either. "Oh, it had better not be as 'fun' as flying . . ." she muttered darkly, bringing Ron out of his private reverie.  
  
"No, seriously though, it's just a quick spot of concentration, a flick of the wrist, and poof! you're gone!" Harry gestured a bit too widely and ended up smacking a certain twin in the arm who was sneaking up behind him.  
  
The twin (probably George, but really, who could ever tell?) recovered marvelously, and quickly put in his two-sense before any one could question his certainly questionable action of walking quietly behind everybody's favorite tremendous trio. "Hermione, you've just got to!"  
  
"It's a rite of passage!" Fred chimed in, coming up behind his brother in their freaky twin I-know-where-my-other-half-is-at-all-times-and-chances- are-we're-in-cahoots fashion.  
  
The two looked at each other and grinned like Cheshire cats. George nodded slightly, and the two swung as one to face the still depressed-looking Hermione.  
  
"Besides, do you really ---- "  
  
"---- want to admit ---- "  
  
"---- that Ronald T. Weasely ---- "  
  
"---- Little Ronnikins!---- "  
  
"---- our upstart little weed of a brother!---- "  
  
Together, they took a deep breath and with a flourish presented the ultimate coup-de-grace.  
  
"---- is actually BETTER that YOU at something?!?"  
  
As Ron sputtered incoherently at the snickering mirror images something about traitors and blood being thicker than water and wanting to see some of that blood flow right about now, Hermione turned to Harry with a resigned sigh.  
  
"All right, all right. They've convinced me. So, when do we start?"  
  
  
  
*********************CHAPTER BREAK*************************  
  
Summer vacation of their sixth year was fast ending before Hermione finally got the nerve to try her practice with the boys. Whenever her best friends suggested it, she'd insist that it was too hot, too cold, too sunny, or too cloudy, or that it had to be illegal to practice Apparating without a license (never mind that this was the same way that Harry and Ron had learned . . . If only Hermione hadn't been in France at the time, she would have learned with them too!)  
  
Finally, after three weeks of hemming and hawing, not to mention a little encouragement from one Ronald T. Weasely ("What's the matter, 'Mione? You scared?"), a very nervous seventeen year old stood in the Weasely's garden patch, twirling one of the curls from her pony-tail in her anxious way as she waited for her instructors to show up. She'd told them at breakfast she wanted to start at twelve, sharp. She hoped they'd get there soon. She was just beginning to feel that perhaps she could put it off another day (or week or month or year, even) when Harry Apparated with a pop just outside the garden.  
  
Coughing slightly at the dust clouds that raised (it had been a dry summer so far), Harry turned to her and smiled. "So, 'Mione, you ready to give it a go?" he called cheerfully, walking towards her. It was a beautiful August day, complete with gentle wind, blue sky, and puffy popcorn clouds, the birds were singing, and he had every confidence that Hermione could do this. After all, she was Hermione. Nothing short of a full grown mountain troll could stop her, and even then, she'd put up a darn good fight.  
  
She smiled weakly at him. "Ready as I'll ever be . . ."  
  
With trembling hands, she smoothed down her new robes, the ones her mother had bought her just a few months back for her birthday. They were a beautiful periwinkle blue and fit her exactly right, somewhat snug on the top and flaring open at the waist to reveal a pretty skirt beneath it. Her mother had said that these were 'confidence clothes', just what a girl needed to feel ready to march into anything. Now more than ever, Hermione needed that confidence. She wouldn't meet Harry's eyes.  
  
Harry cocked his head slightly. This wasn't like Hermione. She'd never avoided a challenge like this before.  
  
Walking over to her, he put a hand on her shoulder. "Y'know, you don't have to do this if you really don't want to. I'd understand if you didn't."  
  
She smiled up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears, before fixing her gaze somewhere off in the distance. "And Ron?" she whispered, biting her lip.  
  
"Ron will understand, too. Everybody's got a little weakness somewhere." Harry chuckled softly. "Even you, Hermione Granger, much as I know you hate to admit it."  
  
She gave his a watery little laugh before giving him a gentle hug around the waist. Even Harry was taller than her now. When had that happened? Had she suddenly shrunk sometime along the way? Stepping back, she smoothed her robes once more in an effort to soothe her nerves and then squared her shoulders. "I am going to do this. I am. Now, Ron had just better hurry up and get here before I lose my nerve altogether."  
  
Harry nodded approvingly. "That's the Gryffindor spirit! And as for the great prat ---- "  
  
Ron choose that moment to Apparate with a small snap on top of one of the garden fences. Sadly, he misjudged the distance from the top of the fence to the ground and ended up falling on top of the fence with considerably less grace than he had planned. Windmilling a bit, he regained his balance.  
  
Once settled, he called out, "Didst mine ears deceive me? Did someone call for a 'great prat'?" Shaking his head in mock sadness, he continued, "Ah, Harry, you shouldn't be calling yourself that! After all, we all know that you're just a so-so prat at best!"  
  
Hermione giggled into her hand as her best friend mock glared at his best friend who sat innocent as the summer day on top of a whitewashed fence.  
  
"All right then, pratius maximus, let's just get started then, shall we?"  
  
*******************CHAPTER BREAK********************************  
  
Ron, it turned out, was an even better instructor than Bill, who'd been his teacher as well as Harry's. He was surprisingly patient and calm throughout the whole lesson, explaining very carefully but not too condescendingly to Hermione exactly what Apparating was going to be like, just so she wouldn't be surprised when it actually happened. He covered some of the basic theory behind it, as well as some elementary physics involved (which totally blew Hermione out of the water; since when had Ron been interested in physics?)  
  
True, it would have been easier for Hermione if Ron hadn't been wearing such a nice black tee-shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes, but you can't have everything, now can you?  
  
Reaching into the pocket of the black robe he'd draped over the fence, Ron pulled out what looked like a stack of muggle post cards.  
  
"Okay, 'Mione, first we're going to pick a place you know really well, and we're going to practice picturing exactly where you want to land. Okay? This requires solid concentration and good visual skills, both of which you happen to be exceedingly good at, believe me, I've seen you study." Ron explained easily. He flicked through the post cards, finally coming on one that he was satisfied with. "Ah-hah, Platform 9 and three fourths should be empty right about now. Let's try that."  
  
Showing her the photograph he held in his hand, Ron explained to her exactly what she should be focusing on: the bench to the left, the train tracks in front of her, the ticket station slightly to the right and behind. Harry added in that she should always think if people were about, to Apparate somewhere discrete and off to the side, but not so far off to the side that she ended up inside of something (particularly not something solid. . . like, say, a wall). But since the platform would be empty at this time of day at this time of year, it would be a great spot to practice.  
  
Closing her eyes, and taking deep calming breaths that had no calming effect whatsoever, Hermione did as she was bid: she pictured it. She knew exactly where she wanted to go. Harry would Apparate first, then it would be Hermione's turn, and then Ron's, just to make sure that everything went right at both ends. She was thus reassured that even if she did end up Squinched, she'd be reported immediately to the proper channels at the Ministry of Magic. Then they could fix her.  
  
Ron told her that as long as she wasn't distracted during the actual process of jumping from one area to another, she wouldn't be split in two. It was a comforting thought.  
  
Giving her a quick hug for good luck, Harry said his goodbyes and then Apparated.  
  
Hermione kept her eyes shut, opening and closing her fists. She couldn't do it. She couldn't do it. She would fail.  
  
Immediately, she felt Ron's presence behind her. "It's okay, it's okay. Take it easy. Breathe. C'mon, Hermione, you can do it. I'm right here, don't worry."  
  
"Okay, okay, I'm going. I'm ready. I'm going." Taking a few more breaths, picturing the platform, Hermione Granger threw caution to the wind and flicked her wand. And with a pop, she was gone. . .  
  
And with a pop, she was standing on the Platform Nine and Three Quarters, deserted except for the likes of one Harry Potter, who was grinning at her like a maniac.  
  
A second pop, and there was a very proud looking Ron Weasely standing next to them, too.  
  
Hermione stared around in wonder. Never had a train station platform looked so beautiful. There was the bench, and the ticket station, and the tracks, and it was all so amazingly there! And solid! Before she knew it, she had grabbed the nearest best friend (Ron) and was hugging him and jumping up and down. Then she did the same with Harry. Laughing, the two boys squished her in a giant bear hug. Hermione looked almost in tears (although not from being squished). She had faced her fears and look! She could travel! Oh, the freedom!  
  
Together, the trio practiced going back and forth from the Burrow to the Platform, just to get it ingrained into Hermione's memory, the way it should feel (a quick feeling of weightlessness right before the jump and then a popping sound right near her head). They went over what she should do, should she ever get stuck in the middle of a Apparation jump (always Apparate with a partner, and if you didn't, use your wand if it's still in your hand at the point of Squinchage. If not, just stand still and pray some wizard finds you soon.)  
  
As a celebration, Harry suggested that they Apparate to Diagon Alley for a quick trip to the Ice Cream Shoppe for treats, on him. Emboldened by her success, Hermione readily agreed. Ron took one look at her happy face and assured her that he wouldn't miss it for the world; it would be like the graduation of his first ever student!  
  
So, they grabbed Ron's post cards again and found a picture of the Apparation booth at the Leaky Cauldron. Those cards, it turned out, were wizard photographs, handy for Apparating in that you could make sure no one was in the area you wanted to Apparate on top of. Quite handy, and more safe than jumping blind. The Apparation booth at the Leaky Cauldron was a small space, but they decided it was big enough to fit the three of them if they placed themselves right. Ron would be on the left, Harry in the middle, and Hermione on the right.  
  
Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, Hermione Apparated first with a pop. Another successful attempt! The booth was cozy although somewhat battered. The peeling wallpaper looked like it had been there for years. At some point, the booth might have been a pantry of some sort, she decided, but it was hard to tell.  
  
Ron appeared across the booth from her in a matter of seconds. They waited expectantly for the third pop. They waited. And waited. And waited some more.  
  
After a few moments of standing very, very still . . .  
  
"Ummm, Ron?" Hermione squeaked. "Where's Harry?" 


	3. It's raining eggs?

Dear Reader,  
  
So, you've made it to Chapter Three, have you? Pitifully optimistic mortal, you're hanging on waiting for this story to get better, aren't you?  
  
MWAHAHAHAHAHAAH!  
  
Ahem. Sorry. I do apologize.  
  
Whether I am apologizing for the lack of getting-better-ness quality of writing or the fact that I am laughing at your sweetness is up to you to decide.  
  
Because you've been so good as to hang on for this long, I'll try to get writing more often. I do like to write, and I like pretending I have an audience that actually reads what I write. Heavens know my brothers are sick of it ^_^ And they don't like the mushy stuff at all. They are really sweet, though. For brothers. They almost never treat me as sub-human just because I am female. That alone puts them in my good book forever!  
  
Anyway, I tire of such useless prattle. On with the show!  
  
Sincerely as always, your somewhat assuming authorship, Katrina Elizabeth Rose Mac  
  
Oh, yeah, and Harry Potter does not belong to me. I'd happily make a trade for him, though. Does anybody know if JKR likes brownies? ~_^  
  
******************************CHAPTER 3 START*********************** *  
  
Harry, it turned out, was lying spread eagle in a dumpster.  
  
A particularly smelly, dirty, nasty, full-of-garbage sort of dumpster.  
  
And as he lay there, dazedly looking up at the storm-clouds gathering overhead (storm-clouds? But hadn't it been sunny back at the Burrow?), he could have sworn that he could hear a voice singing from the sky.  
  
*So I've finally died and this . . . this is heaven,* he thought. *Funny. I never imagined that it would smell quite this bad . . .*  
  
But then his scattered threads of thoughts began to twist themselves together, weaving once more into something resembling actual coherency. And Harry realized that he was feeling just a tad too bruised and sore to be in heaven just yet.  
  
Moaning a little at having to move his sore limbs (he must have fallen a considerable distance into the dumpster, the way he hurt and the way the garbage actually carried his indentation), he crouched in the midden, wincing a bit as he sank ankle deep in the warm muck. He tried not to look too closely at anything rotting around him and tried even harder to keep from breathing in through his nose. It proved difficult and he found himself getting light-headed and queasy all at once.  
  
And then, the singing got louder, as though singer herself (well, he supposed it was a girl; the voice was clear, high, and, well, music to his ears) were actually coming closer. He looked up to see that the dumpster he crouched in was actually next to a rather large, stucco apartment building. An open window about three floors up was probably the source of the serenade he partook of.  
  
Harry cocked his head, trying to remember why he was in a dumpster in the first place.  
  
He had been at the Burrow . . .  
  
Teaching Hermione to apparate . . .  
  
She had gone on to the Ice Cream Shoppe with Ron . . .  
  
He was about to follow when BOOM!  
  
A humongous explosion had shaken the little garden patch just as he was attempting the jump.  
  
Well, his concentration had been broken, for sure. He was lucky to be still in one piece, never mind that that one piece was now in a slimy dumpster.  
  
But a slimy dumpster . . . where?  
  
Certainly not in Ottery St. Catchpole, out by the Burrow. Nor in Diagon Alley.  
  
"Toto," he muttered, trying to brush something slimy off his black robes. "I don't think we're in Kansas any more . . ."  
  
And that's when it hit him.  
  
Literally.  
  
A harsh cracking sound, little white bits flying everywhere. Something wet and liquidy thick and not altogether pleasant running down his forehead.  
  
Harry couldn't help it. He swore. He was in a dumpster, ankle-deep in sludge, and someone had just dropped an egg on him. All he needed now to finish off this perfect day was for Draco Malfoy to come prancing by in drag.  
  
And so Harry swore some more, more creatively this time, trying to get that awful visualization out of his mind.  
  
He looked up when he heard a gasp, however. A small, pale face looked down from a third story window directly in line with the dumpster. Her hands were clasped to her mouth and her light eyes were almost as big as Dobby's, the way she was looking at him.  
  
"Ohmigosh." She mouthed, stricken. Apparently, she had been the one to discard the offending egg that one dark-haired boy was currently picking out of his hair. "Ohmygosh! I am soooo sorry! So sorry! Hold on! Don't move, I'll be right there!" And her face disappeared from the window.  
  
Harry stood up in the dumpster and gripped one of the sides, slippery with slime though it may have been. Sighing, he heaved himself out, falling not quite gracefully onto a prettily manicured lawn surrounded by neatly pruned shrubbery. Looking down at himself, he grimaced. In this neighborhood of neat lawns and trimmed topiaries, somehow he thought that his black robes and wand looked out of place. So he hurriedly stripped off the soiled robe, revealing a simple striped t-shirt and pair of light pants, and looked for a place to hide it.  
  
He was going to have a lot of explaining to do.  
  
Oh, who was he kidding? He was going to have a lot of *lying* to do. A Muggle (how could she anything but Muggle? More than ninety five percent of the blasted island was Muggle!) had found him in her *dumpster*, for the love of Chocolate Frogs!  
  
And at that point, said Muggle (Muggle-ess?) jerked open the back door of the apartment complex, tripped on the back step, and would have hit rather unforgiving pavement had she not bowled into Harry Potter, taking him down in a heap.  
  
Blushing like mad, the little blond straightened herself before he'd had much of a chance to say anything. She pulled his sleeve until he was sitting on the unlucky back step of the building. Then, she promptly took up a wet dishtowel she'd run down with and gasping apologies, gently scrubbed at his hair, swatting bits of shell left and right as she tried to get the more stubborn pieces of egg off of him. Harry went rigid, as unused to strange girls attacking him with flying poultry-derived projectiles as he was unused to being set upon with dishrags.  
  
"Sorry, sorry, so sorry." The girl gasped, thinking she had hurt him with her scrubbing of his scalp. "I don't think this is working, you'll probably have to come up. I am so very sorry. For the egg. And for me falling over the step. And making you hit concrete. Stupid step, sitting there, waiting for someone to kill themselves . . ." and so she trailed off, muttering curses on the poor, defenseless step that had so stupidly attacked her.  
  
Harry laughed, quietly and so suddenly he even surprised himself. The quiet mirth grew into a ringing chuckle as he allowed the girl to lead him up the stair way. She turned to look at her hapless victim, dishtowel still sitting haphazardly over his head, and raised an eyebrow. "Maaaybe that egg hit you harder than I thought."  
  
"No, no." He gasped between snorts of laughter. "It's just. . . it's always the last step. . . that's the doozy. . ."  
  
And to his absolute surprise, because almost no one except Hermione and Ron ever found his jokes truly funny, the girl giggled into her hands, a beautiful sound that brought to mind crystallized bells.  
  
*****************CHAPTER BREAK*********************************  
  
Laura, Harry Potter soon learned. Her name was Laura.  
  
And she was determined to "set to rights" everything that she had "messed up".  
  
This included sticking the head of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, under a faucet and scrubbing him until all the little bits of eggshell that he had previously thought were embedded in his skull were scraped clear out of his hair. Thankfully, no outrageous amount of blood was shed or Laura would have pulled out the first aid kit. And Harry Potter, while thinking that it was terribly nice of Laura to go through the trouble of fixing him up, had this sneaking little suspicion that Laura should never, ever be allowed to become a nurse.  
  
But it was all worth it, because in the end, Laura sat him down to dry at a small kitchen table and brought him some fresh tea. She told him the least she could do was offer him some cake, once it was done baking. The same cake, she added mischievously, that had called for the egg that he was (thankfully) no longer wearing.  
  
He decided he liked her, for her quiet good hyperactivity (for hyper she was, running from place to place as though she had a thousand things to do) and her total acceptance that a boy had just happened to be looking for a out-of-bounds football and had leaned too far and fallen into her dumpster, landing therein just in time to be hit by an egg thrown out the window. Like that was plausible.  
  
Besides, she was wearing an apron. With ducks on it.  
  
And she had flour in her hair.  
  
And she didn't seem to mind at all.  
  
And the fact that she had never before heard the name Harry Potter, didn't expect him to be charming or witty or courageous for something that had happened so many years in the past, made him warm up quite a bit to the little sprite.  
  
For little, she was. And spritish. She stood a little above five foot, at least a head and a half beneath him. In little less than an hour, she had changed the notoriously girl-shy Harry Potter (curse that Cho Chang for ruining him!) into something somewhat more talkative, more relaxed. He felt like he'd known her for years. Like he was talking to Hermione, only . . . not.  
  
She sat at the table next to him, waiting for her kitchen timer to beep so that she could pull out the cake while sipping tea from a cup that was almost bigger than her head. When he asked her about the enormity of the cup, she grinned and said that she needed caffeine. Lots of caffeine.  
  
"Isn't that kind of unethical? I mean, you're kind of hyper already. . ."  
  
She held up a warning finger. "No man, Harry Potter, comes between me and my caffeine. None."  
  
Harry grinned. "He who would try would perish in the attempt?"  
  
Laura nodded solemnly. "In the most gruesome way you can imagine. So don't even think about it." She grinned evilly at him and cackled loudly.  
  
Harry smiled and thought about how much Ron and Hermione would like Laura, if they could ever meet her. He shook his head, trying to get rid of that thought (which had been popping up quite a bit over the last half hour of joking and jibing). Wizards don't consort with Muggles because Muggles couldn't find out about wizards. It was like an unwritten law.  
  
But then the cake timer beeped, and Laura skipped to the oven to take it out. She took a deep, dramatic sniff and sighed happily. "Aaah, the out of the oven smell. Pastry at it's finest. Perfection." Then she grinned wickedly. "Now time for FROSTING!!!"  
  
Harry looked at the pure delight that shined out of her light eyes and hesitated for just a minute. "Umm . . . Can I frost, too?"  
  
She looked him over skeptically and then shrugged. "Wash your hands, dumpster boy. I will *not* have my cake smelling as badly as you do right now."  
  
"Hey, I do not smell! My shoes might, but I left them by the door. And my hair is now lemony-fresh, thanks to someone attacking me with what looked suspiciously like dish soap!"  
  
She sniffed. "Well, something smells." And then she noticed the balled up black robe that Harry had been forced to carry up to the apartment with him as he hadn't been able to find a hiding place fast enough. "Ah-ha!" She leapt on it, before he could stop her. "And what is this?"  
  
"Um . . ." Harry thought very fast. Normal people did not just go around wearing black robes. "A costume?"  
  
Laura sniffed it and made a face. "In all of seventeen my years here in Maidstone, never have I smelled anything so bad! Can I wash it? And why were you wearing a costume? I thought you'd been playing football."  
  
Maidstone? Information to be stored away for later. That meant he wasn't so far from the Dursleys, in their house in Surrey. Too close for comfort.  
  
"Well, um, see, I was. Playing football. Kicking the ball around. By myself. On the way home from . . . from a children's party, yeah. I'm . . ." he grimaced a little bit at the irony. "I'm a magician."  
  
Laura's eyes lit up. She might have been a seventeen year old, but she was inclined to have a little fun now and then. "A magician? Really?" She looked down at the robe. "Is it safe to wash? I won't scrub off any needed magic-ness?" she teased him.  
  
Harry laughed, relieved that she had bought such malarkey. "No, no." he assured her weakly. "Most of my stuff is more magical than you can even imagine." 


End file.
